Who Wants to Date a Crawley Sister?
by The Yankee Countess
Summary: Every year, the Grantham Foundation has a charity auction, and this year, the Crawley sisters are putting themselves on the auction block! For one night, they will a lucky gentleman's dinner date. So who will win that dream date? Modern AU for STEAMM Day! (Sybil/Tom, Edith/Anthony, Mary/Matthew)
1. The Auction

_HERE IT IS! My STEAMM day contribution! This story will be told in three parts, with parts 2 and 3 to follow soon (hopefully!) I won't say too much, as this is long enough, but thank you for reading, and LONG LIVE THE AU!_

* * *

**WHO WANTS TO DATE A CRAWLEY SISTER?  
**_**by The Yankee Countess**_

_Chapter One__**  
"The Auction"**_

The crowds were starting to gather when he arrived.

He wandered over to the far side of the room where others like him were standing, some with cameras hoisted up on tripods, others typing away on laptops and tablets, and a few simply using their phones to do their job. He was a rare one amongst this group; he still used a tape recorder and took notes with a pen on a small, spiral notebook.

"Ha! So you're the one who drew the short stick then?"

He sighed at the familiar voice and turned to look at his former work colleague who was grinning from ear to ear, because it was no secret between the both of them that he hated covering these sorts of things.

"Hello, Michael."

"Tom Branson; Tom 'I'm a political journalist and don't have time to cover such frivolous fluff stories' Branson is here, covering…?"

He sighed and tried his best not to look as defeated as he felt. "A charity auction—_WHICH JUST SO HAPPENS_ to be run by the Crawley family, so there is a political connection to it," he argued.

"Bullshit," his friend laughed. "Nice try though."

Tom sighed and ran a hand through his hair. It was true; he hated covering things like this. He much preferred attending party conferences, leadership summits, interviewing MPs, and even getting in the fray of protests and rallies. Politics was the reason he got into journalism…_not_ celebrity gossip. And as much as his brain tried to spin this particular assignment as being "political" because the Crawley family held some significance in the House of Lords ever since the Thatcher administration, the truth of the matter was…this was, as Michael teased him, a "fluff piece". Wealthy toffs, trying to look good for the papers and show the masses just how "generous" they were by hosting something grand like this.

"I still can't believe that you're still with _The Standard_," Michael chuckled, interrupting his thoughts.

"I still can't believe that you left!" Tom shot back. "And for Richard Carlisle's paper, as well. Whatever happened to, '_my grandfather was Old Labor, my father was Old Labor_…'?"

"Pay is better at a Tory paper," Michael shrugged his shoulders. "Besides, I was never as 'political' as you, but maybe that's because I'm not an Irish republican?"

Tom snorted before sitting in a vacant chair near his old friend. "Selling out one's ideals for money; your grandfather must be turning in his grave."

Michael didn't seem bothered in the least. "Who said they were _my_ ideals? Besides, it could be worse; at least it's not one of Murdoch's papers," he chuckled. "And as for my grandfather, he taught me to think for myself, which is what I did, and I'm glad of it. If I had stayed with _The Standard_, you think I'd be editor?"

Tom's eyes widened at this revelation. "What!? _Already?"_

Michael laughed. "Well, next month, actually. But yeah…you're looking at 'Michael Gregson, soon-to-be editor for _The Herald Star_."

Tom couldn't believe it. Not even six months, and Michael had already been promoted to editor. He had been with _The Standard_ for nearly three years, and there was no talk of that happening any time soon.

"So what's a 'future editor' doing here, covering a posh charity auction?" he asked, somewhat bitterly. He couldn't help but feel a little envious of his friend.

"Well as I said, I won't be made editor until next month. But even so, you think I would miss this?" he grinned, before thrusting the auction program into Tom's face.

Tom frowned and took the program out of Michael's hands and examined it carefully. It was a list of items that would be auctioned off, including a 1922 Rolls-Royce and 1914 Renault. A whistle escaped his lips as he imagined the price tags of two such fine motors; he always had a thing for old cars. "Real beauties, I'd imagine," he murmured out loud.

"I'd say," Michael grinned.

Tom looked at his friend with a quirk of his eyebrow. "Even if the pay _is_ that much better, there's no way you could afford either of those."

Michael looked a little confused. "What are you talking about?"

Now it was Tom who looked confused. "The Rolls and the Renault, of course! Why? Didn't you…?" he looked back at the list, trying to see if there was something he was missing.

Michael's bark of laughter practically caused him to fall off his chair.

"Good God, Tom! You thought I meant…?" he kept laughing and shook his head. "No, no, I meant _this_," he pointed to a section in the middle of the program, and Tom followed his finger.

_FOR ONE NIGHT!  
WIN A DINNER DATE WITH A CRAWLEY SISTER!  
LADIES MARY, EDITH, AND SYBIL CRAWLEY_

Tom blinked…and then read the program a second time. He finally lifted his eyes to Michael, his own wide with shock. "The man is auctioning off _his own daughters!?"_

"Well technically it's their grandmother, as she's the one who runs the Grantham Foundation, but for heaven's sake, Branson, you make it sound as if the whole is 'nefarious', when it's just a bit of fun! _Dinner_ dates, nothing more!" A smirk began to spread across his face. "Although, I suppose it's always possible _more_ could happen—"

"You're sick," Tom muttered, tossing the program back at his friend. "And besides, as members of the press, I highly doubt we're even allowed to participate. Just cover the event, not take part in it."

Michael shrugged his shoulders and stuffed the program back into his waistcoat pocket. "Ah well, a man can dream, can't he?" he sighed. "I've heard they're all gorgeous too."

Tom chose to ignore Michael, and instead began taking notes in his notebook about the crowd that was starting to fill the auction hall, his eyes scanning the growing throng to see if any key political figures had decided to attend.

One such figure did catch his eye, and Tom thought the man significant enough to scribble down in his notebook: Sir Anthony Strallan, Minister of Agriculture.

He couldn't help but wonder…what had brought the Yorkshire baronet to auction? And what was it that the man was hoping to win?

* * *

"Well, as I live and breathe, Anthony Strallan is here!"

Anthony looked up from the program he was reading (and marking with a pen) at the voice that was calling out to him. He smiled at the sight of the old friend who was approaching, and rose to shake the man's hand.

"Martin! So you've come as well?"

Martin Grey laughed and nodded his head. "As if I would this; I think Violet would have my head on a spike if I dared not show to her annual auction," he chuckled. "Although I think I know what you've come for…am I right?"

Anthony couldn't help but grin knowingly.

Martin sighed. "I'm almost afraid to ask which one you'll go for."

Anthony chuckled. "That depends on which one I can outbid you on."

Martin narrowed his eyes, though there was humor in his glare. "I've seen the Rolls, and it is a beauty. But a vintage Renault? That predates WWI? Can you imagine how rare a car like that can be?"

Anthony only grinned, glancing down at the notes he had been making on his program. "More than you know," he murmured to himself.

"Such a thing of beauty belongs in a museum if you ask me," Martin added, folding his arms across his chest. "But no doubt you disagree."

"Absolutely!" Anthony responded. "What's the point of having a beautiful car if you're not going to drive it around?"

"But a _vintage_ 1914 Renault?"

"All the more reason," Anthony declared. "Beautiful things should be seen, not covered up or locked away. And just because something is 'old' does not mean it's lifeless."

Martin lifted an eyebrow at his words. "Are we still talking about the Renault?"

Anthony chuckled and went back to examining his program. "May the best man win," he murmured.

"Well, we shall see about that," Martin warned him. "You should know that my son Larry is with me this year, which means that you may find yourself trying to outbid not one, but TWO Grey men."

Anthony's eyes rose to follow Martin's gaze, which was focused several rows in front of them. He recognized Larry Grey right away; the man made it into a great many tabloids for his late-night antics with London socialites. The way the younger man was flashing his wallet to several people nearby, boasting about the various items he was going to outbid them for, did not necessarily fill Anthony with worry that the car he had come to win would slip through his fingers.

So instead, he put on a smile and held his hand out for Martin Grey to shake. "Challenge accepted."

The room was nearly filled to capacity; practically every chair was taken. There was one directly in front of him that remained vacant…that is, until a young blonde-haired man sat down on it, after offering several apologies for practically crawling over people's laps to get to it.

"So sorry," the young man apologized as he sat down, glancing over his shoulder at Anthony. "I hope I'm not blocking your view?"

"Oh! Oh no, no, it's quite alright," Anthony reassured.

The young man smiled at this. "Well, I won't be here for very long, I can assure you. I've really only come for one purpose."

Anthony glanced up from his program, rather curious about the young man's words. "Oh?" he asked. The man looked like the sort who enjoyed cars. Should he be worried?

The young man nodded, before extending his hand in greeting. "Forgive me for not introducing myself: Matthew Crawley."

* * *

He had only been back in England for two weeks. He had only been back in London for two days. And yet here he was, at an auction hall, his bank account practically empty and with only one goal in mind.

Matthew sighed as he glanced down at the program he had been given upon entering the hall. Unlike others around him, who were chatting about the various items up for bidding, his eyes were focused on place and one place only.

_Mary._

He closed his eyes and let out a long, shaky breath.

How would she react if she saw him right now? How would she react when he started bidding? Would she even accept his bid if by some miracle, he won? He glanced around the room and saw a great number of handsome men, some of them he knew, others he didn't, and he wouldn't be surprised if they all put in a bid to win a dinner date with the beautiful Lady Mary Crawley. And who was he compared to them? Not a blue blood by birth, certainly.

Matthew sighed and lowered his head, as if going into a contemplative prayer.

Five years. Good God, that was how long it had been! Five years since the two of them had seen each other, let alone spoken to one another. Five years too long.

And was he too late? What if, despite this auction idea, she was involved with another man? _Seriously,_ involved? What if, despite their history, she wanted nothing to do with him? After all, it had not ended well, the last time they had been in the same room together. And how would she respond when he told her his story? That he had come back to England for her? That he had been searching for her, working up the nerve to try and approach her, and that only yesterday he had learned about this auction, and that she was the sole reason he was there, prepared to go bankrupt if needs be, just so that he could talk to her and try to make things right?

…Even if that meant having to say goodbye forever?

Oh God, he was going to be sick. His stomach was twisted into so many knots right now!

"Mr. Crawley?"

He lifted his head at the sound of the woman's voice, his eyes widening as he recognized the lovely blonde. "Anna?" He quickly apologized for his informality. "I'm sorry, I meant, Miss Smith."

Anna laughed and shook her head. "That's quite alright, sir; and actually it's Mrs. Bates now," she explained.

Matthew's eyes widened. "Oh! Well, congratulations! Sorry, I…I've only been back in the country for two weeks," he apologized.

Anna waved her hand. "That's alright sir, in fact it's only been four months; I still sometimes catch myself saying my maiden name by accident," she giggled. "But it's good to see you! It has been a while, I must say." Her smile faded slightly, and she glanced over her shoulder briefly, before speaking again. "Does um…does…does she—?"

"No," Matthew answered, knowing what she was trying to ask. "No, I…I haven't had the chance to speak with her, let alone see her face to face, yet."

Anna's eyes widened at this bit of news. "And so you've come to the Grantham Foundation's annual charity auction to do just that?"

_Well, when you put it like that…_

Matthew gave the woman a somewhat sheepish smile, before sighing in defeat. "It's stupid, I know—"

"I wouldn't say that, sir," Anna shook her head. "But you should be prepared."

Prepared? He swallowed nervously at her words.

Anna glanced towards the first three rows of the auction hall and Matthew followed her eyes. "I would say your biggest competition is going to be those gentlemen," she murmured. "Mr. Blake is a financial advisor for the foundation who spars with Lady Mary a great deal, but it wouldn't surprise me if he puts a bid in—it's rumored around the office that he likes her," Anna explained. "Then there's Mr. Napier and Mr. Gillingham, both close friends to the family, and both who have made it known in some way, shape, or form in the past, that they fancy her, and then…" Anna's eyes scanned the crowd looking for a specific face. Matthew, however, was feeling his heart fall further and further into his stomach at the woman's words. Oh God, what was the point? This was a losing battle, wasn't it?

"Ah yes, Mr. Pemuk, a Turkish diplomat who has a slight history with her, and who I have heard boasting whenever I pass him by, about how he's going to 'win her back'."

_Not if I have anything to say about it,_ Matthew thought. Oh he knew all about Mr. Pemuk; and his jaw tightened that he was going to be forced to sit in the same room with the bastard and breathe in the same air as him.

"Other than that, I think you stand a good chance," Anna teased, giving him a wink.

Matthew smiled, though it was strained. This had done very little to ease his nerves. "Thank you."

She reached out and gave his shoulder a squeeze. "If it's any consolation…I don't think she'll run screaming at the sight of you."

Did that help? He wasn't sure.

"I should go," she sighed. "I'm managing everything back stage, and duty calls!"

Matthew nodded his head, giving the woman a grateful smile. "Best of luck to you, Mrs. Bates."

She smiled and nodded her head. "And to you as well, Mr. Crawley."

She turned then and quickly made her way towards the back stage, passing the various men she had just pointed out to Mr. Crawley, passing the press who were already taking pictures of "who's who" for their various papers and magazines, before finally reaching the corded off area that was reserved for staff personnel only, flashing her name badge to the security guard, before proceeded behind a closed curtained area.

Oh this year's auction was going to be most interesting!

* * *

"Oh come on, Sybil, it's not _that_ bad," Edith said, trying to soothe her baby sister's pout.

Sybil Crawley, youngest daughter to the Earl of Grantham, was sitting on a nearby couch in the curtained off "green room", her arms folded across her chest, and a look of disgust and annoyance clouding her pretty face.

"It's barbaric and sexist and I really can't believe that YOU, Mary, agreed with Papa to do this!" she accused, turning her eyes on the eldest Crawley daughter.

Ever the picture of elegance, Mary Crawley sighed as she recapped her lipstick, before meeting her baby sister's eyes in the mirror. "First of all, it was Granny who asked—"

"Even worse!" Sybil groaned.

"And second," Mary continued, ignoring Sybil's interruption. "It's for charity," she informed her sister for what felt like the hundredth time. "And it's just a simple dinner date, nothing more."

"But we're being AUCTIONED OFF!" Sybil groaned. "Men will be making bids based on _our looks!"_ she folded her arms and shook her head. "No, no, I refuse to go out there on that stage let them judge me on such a superficial—"

"Oh as if you have anything to worry about," the middle daughter groaned, rolling her own eyes. Edith Crawley crossed the room to stand next to Mary, running a hand through her hair, making sure it looked as good as it could under the circumstances, taking notice, again, at how different she looked when compared to her elder and younger sister. "Both you and Mary will be snatched up right away, whereas I will be the last one standing, as per usual."

Sybil opened her mouth to say something, but Mary beat her to it.

"HA!" Mary shook her head. "You're not the one with the reputation for being an 'ice queen' or a 'ball buster'; men see me coming and go running the other way." She glanced at Sybil and gave her a smile. "I mean, I'm not the 'sweetest spirit'—"

"Oh, DON'T START _THAT_ AGAIN!" Sybil groaned, pushing herself up from the couch. It was a pet name that their housekeeper had given her when she was a child, and at the time Sybil hadn't minded it, but now that she was grown, she didn't want to be only thought of as "the sweetest spirit", as Mary liked to tease. She was more than that…and to be perfectly honest, she didn't think she was that sweet, anyway.

"Well, with an attitude like that, you'll prove quite the contrary," Mary reassured.

Sybil sighed and began to pace the room. "Alright, so it's for charity, it's for the 'good' of the foundation," she reasoned. "I understand that those are your reasons, Mary, but Edith…?" she turned and looked at her middle sister.

Edith blushed but put on a smile, trying to appear cheerful and positive, despite the nerves she was feeling. "Oh I don't know, I mean, it might be fun?" she offered. "And...well…in some ways, it can be a bit romantic, don't you think?"

Sybil's eyes looked like they were ready to bulge out of her head_. "Fun? Romantic?_ You're not serious, surely!?"

"Oh Sybil, pipe down and leave Edith be," Mary groaned. It wasn't often that the elder sister came to the middle sister's defense, but sometimes the younger sister's progressive and "holier than thou" attitude was a bit much.

She sighed and turned away from the mirror to look at her younger sisters. "Look, I understand your discomfort about the whole situation," she said, pointedly to Sybil. "And I'm thankful that you're trying to put on a brave face and be positive," she added, looking pointedly at Edith. "But…it really is for a good cause; the annual auction has always been the foundation's most successful charity event, and for that reason in of itself…shouldn't we support it?"

Sybil sighed, giving Mary a look. "Oh you do know what buttons to push with me, don't you?" she muttered. Indeed, Mary did, which was why she was grinning rather proudly.

"And who knows!" Mary continued, glancing more last time at the mirror. "Maybe by some miracle, we'll each find the perfect gentleman?"

Both Sybil and Edith exchanged a look before turning their faces back to Mary…and then the three of them burst out laughing.

"Alright, the chances of pigs flying are far more likely than that," she conceded. Mary then stepped forward and took her sister's hands in hers. "But it will make for some interesting gossip come Sunday brunch, don't you think?"

Sybil groaned. "I should have known Granny was behind all this; the whole thing reeks as some sort of giant 'matchmaking' scheme."

"Lady Mary? Lady Edith? Lady Sybil?" A curtain was brushed aside and all three sisters turned to see the face of their grandmother's personal assistant who was standing in the doorway that would lead them out to the auction hall where hundreds of flashbulbs were illuminating a nearby stage. "It's time," Anna announced, giving the three of them an encouraging smile.

"Right," Mary sighed, squeezing her sisters' hands again. "Shall we, ladies?"

Sybil sighed. She still wasn't comfortable with this whole thing, but at the same time she drew strength from her sisters: Edith, ever the romantic optimist, and Mary, ever the brave, future leader for the foundation. "Oh alright," she muttered. Though what she didn't tell her sisters was that this auction was going to be on _her terms_.

Edith giggled at her youngest sister's pout, before wrapping an arm around her shoulders and giving her a squeeze which seemed to do the trick and put a smile on Sybil's face. She then turned to Mary and nodded, before confidently announcing, "Lead the way!"

Mary did just that, moving towards Anna who held the curtain open for them. "Anyone we know in the audience?" Mary whispered. There was really only one person she cared about, and she hoped and prayed he wasn't going to be there. What utter humiliation if he were.

"Quite a few, milady," Anna whispered back.

Mary swallowed and glanced at the woman, wondering if she could learn more. However, before she had the chance, the auctioneer was announcing their names, and the crowd began to applaud, and the three Crawley sisters found themselves climbing up onto the stage, hundreds of flashbulbs blinding them as the auctioneer welcomed them, before turning back to the audience and asked the fateful question, "Now who amongst you wants to date a Crawley sister?"

* * *

The auction hadn't been anything _that_ spectacular. Not that he had a great deal of experience attending such events. But it certainly seemed no different from the one auction he had once attended at Christies, to cover a story on an MP who was rumored to be using party funds to nurse his addiction for Impressionist paintings. For the most part, Tom found the entire thing rather boring, making a few notes here and there about some political figures he saw in the audience making various bids (Sir Anthony Strallan hadn't made any bids yet, and Tom wondered if the man was waiting for something specific—possibly those vintage cars which were near the end of the list).

"Blimey!"

He glanced over at Michael, who was looking straight ahead at the stage. He turned his eyes to it to see what had his friend so gobsmacked, and felt his own eyes widen as three very beautiful women stepped forth.

"Gorgeous, aren't they?" Michael hissed in his ear.

Indeed, they were. Tom swallowed and looked at Michael for confirmation. "Are they—?"

"The Crawley sisters?" Michael finished for him. Just then, the auctioneer confirmed what Tom had been asking, and applause went up around the room as the three lovely ladies stood side by side on the stage, each smiling and blushing and looking calm and confident, though he wondered if any of them were feeling nervous at all.

He that the Earl of Grantham had three daughters. And he had seen Mary Crawley's picture before. She was the eldest, and would one day take over the running of the Grantham Foundation when her grandmother finally decided to retire. Sometimes she would go and speak on behalf of "Old Lady Grantham" as the press called Violet Crawley, and attend various ceremonies from hospital ribbon cuttings, to school award assemblies. She was very elegant, that could not be denied, perhaps even more so in person. She was the tallest of the three, and stood in the middle, exuding the most confidence he would say. On her left, and standing closest to the auctioneer's podium was a woman who looked very different from Lady Mary. She had copper-colored hair, and it was pulled back, away from her shoulders. She was very pretty too, and judging from the way Michael's eyes seemed to be lingering, it was clear who his friend preferred.

"Lady Edith," Michael told him. "Rumor has it that she's an advice columnist for a woman's magazine, under some strange penname, though it escapes me at the moment."

Tom's eyes returned to the stage and now looked at the young woman on Lady Mary's right.

She looked to be the youngest, and had long dark hair, very similar to Lady Mary's. Like her sisters, she too was smiling, though there seemed to be something…forced, about her expression. There was also something about the way she stood; a slight "slouch" of her shoulders, as if…as if she wasn't thrilled about being there.

_A rebel,_ he heard his mind murmur. He couldn't help but smile at that.

Nearby, Sir Anthony gazed up at the stage and his own eyes widened at the beautiful sight of the three Crawley sisters. Indeed, they would make some young man very happy to be fortunate enough to escort them to dinner. He sighed, as he glanced around the room at the various "young bucks", all getting their wallets out and counting their notes. What he wouldn't give to be twenty years younger…

Anthony noticed how the young man who was sitting directly in front of him had straightened to attention when the three ladies walked across the stage. He had been watching the young man with some fascination during the event, noticing how he was sitting quietly and glancing every so often at the program he was holding, but not once lifting his hand to bid on any of the items that had come forward…yet.

He did recall how the young man—Matthew, was his name—had said he had come for a specific purpose. Anthony had assumed, like himself, that the young man was a bit of "speed fiend" and was waiting until either the Rolls or the Renault were brought forward. But judging from the way he was nervously fidgeting with his wallet, he couldn't help but wonder…had he come with hopes to "win a date" with one of the Earl of Grantham's daughters?

Matthew took a deep breath and lifted his eyes away from his wallet, looking back up on the stage and wondering if she had seen him. Would she say something? Would she call for security and tell them to take him away? No, no, Mary was not one to make a scene. That didn't mean, however, that once the bidding commenced, she would let him win…_if_ he won. And even if he did win fair and square, would she agree to have dinner with him? Oh God, he was torn between standing up and making a fool of himself and calling out to her…and wishing the earth would just open up and swallow him whole.

"Shall we begin?" the auctioneer asked, turning and smiling at the three sisters.

The girls blushed and glanced at each other. "Well, I suppose I should go first, being the eldest," Mary murmured to Edith and Sybil.

"Oh no, let me," Edith said, surprising the other two. "I mean, it will be very discouraging to have to follow you up there."

However despite Edith's wish, the auctioneer was already calling Lady Mary Crawley forth, and Mary gave Edith an apologetic look, before squeezing both sisters hands, and stepping forward, a radiant smile spread across her face, smiling for all the cameras that clicked and flashed her image for their various news sources.

"Lady Mary Crawley…" the auctioneer introduced, giving a slight bow of his head. "Shall we start the bidding at…?"

"A modest sum," Mary whispered in the auctioneer's ear.

The man nodded and lifted his gavel to begin. "Let us start at…£100? Do I hear £100?"

A hand shot up and Mary's eyes flew to the owner of the hand. It was Evelyn Napier, a longtime friend of her family's.

"Thank you sir, do I hear £150?" another hand shot up, to a man sitting just next to Evelyn, Mr. Gillingham.

"£150 to Lord Gillingham, do I hear £175?" Another hand shot up, once again from Evelyn Napier, and then it went back to Anthony Gillingham, and so on and so forth. By the time the price had risen to £275, a voice spoke up and Mary rolled her eyes at the sight of Charles Blake, the man who she blamed for all her headaches when it came to the foundation. Oh he did enjoy vexing her.

"£325," Mr. Blake grinned, having the audacity to wink at her.

However, before the auctioneer could say anything, a gasp went out around the room when someone practically shouted, "£400!" and all eyes turned to handsome Turkish diplomat who exuded more confidence than any other man in the room.

People began to murmur in the room, and Mary felt her jaw tighten at the sight of the man. The nerve of him! To come here and—

"£450!" Mr. Blake declared.

"£500," Mr. Pemuk countered, not looking worried in the slightest.

Mary looked at both Evelyn Napier and Anthony Gillingham, both looking unsure if they dare bid any higher, though Evelyn did raise his hand and shout "£525!" however that was quickly countered by Mr. Pemuk's "£600!"

Good Lord, £600. Edith and Sybil glanced at each other, both stunned by how high the bidding had gone. They doubted it would be anything like that for themselves.

"Well… £600 is our latest bid…do I hear £625?" the auctioneer asked.

"No, you won't," Mr. Pemuk rose from his chair, looking most pleased with himself, clearly feeling he had won the day.

"£650!"

A gasp went up around the room and everyone turned to look in the center, including Mary who was peering out into the audience, momentarily blinded by the flashbulbs that had turned towards the speaker. She knew that voice! But…but it couldn't be…

"Oh my God!" Sybil gasped.

"Matthew!?" Edith spoke the very name Mary was thinking as her eyes widened at the sight of the familiar face she never thought she would see again.

What was he doing here!?

"I bid £650!" Matthew declared.

Now the eyes turned to Mr. Pemuk, whose confident, cocky smile began to fade.

He stuck out his chin. "£700," he growled.

"£750!" Matthew countered.

£750!? Mary stared at Matthew as if he had lost his mind. He didn't have that sort of money, surely!

"£800!" Mr. Pemuk growled.

"£850!" Matthew countered.

More gasps went up around the room, and the people began to applaud. Clearly this was the most entertainment anyone had expected to take place!

The Turkish diplomat scowled at Matthew, and then said through clenched teeth, "£1000!"

"Oh my!" the auctioneer was stunned speechless. Mary glanced over her shoulder at her sisters, who were just staring with slack jaws and wide eyes as Matthew did everything he could to outbid the other man. She turned her eyes back to him, staring and silently asking, _"Are you mad!?"_

Apparently so.

"£1025," he answered back.

"LIAR!" Mr. Pemuk declared, pointing an accusatory finger at Matthew. "You don't have that sort of money! PROVE IT!"

"The man doesn't have to prove anything to you!" shouted a voice behind him, and people turned to see Sir Anthony rising and shouting back at the Turkish diplomat. "Let the Foundation sort it out; besides, this is all for charity, is it not?"

Several people nearby applauded him, and even the Crawley sisters looked impressed. Edith couldn't help but grin_. That was very noble_, she thought.

"Do I hear £1050?" the auctioneer asked.

All eyes returned once again to Mr. Pemuk who was fuming. He glanced at the stage, caught Mary's eye, and then muttered something that sounded like "damn you all!" before turning on his heel and marching directly out the door without a backwards glance.

"Well, I think that's that," the auctioneer announced, banging his gavel against the podium. "£1025 to this gentlemen!"

The crowd clapped and some near Matthew slapped him on the shoulders, offering various congratulations. They had been entertained immensely. But Matthew's eyes were focused on the woman whose company he had just won for dinner, and he hoped and prayed she wouldn't turn her back on him now.

"Well…it will be hard to top that!" the auctioneer chuckled as Mary rejoined her sisters, still stunned by everything that had happened…and by seeing Matthew again. She honestly didn't know which shocked her more.

Edith forced a smile despite the auctioneer's words. She wasn't expecting half the fuss that Mary had received. In fact, she wondered if it were possible to make the modest starting sum even more modest.

"Lady Edith Crawley!" the auctioneer introduced, and Edith smiled, feeling a little shy now, but tried to look brave and elegant as she now stepped forward. "Right, shall we start the bidding at £100?"

Here we go, Edith thought.

"£100!"

Her eyes flew to where the voice had come from…and felt her heart sink a little. "Papa, that's not fair!" she groaned.

Lord Grantham, who was standing off to the side gave a sheepish shrug, which heard a hearty chuckle from the audience, though Edith's cheeks grew bright red. How mortifying to have your father of all people, make a bid because no one else wants to!

"Well, £100 to Lord Grantham," the auctioneer chuckled. "Do I hear £150?"

Silence fell.

Edith's face began to burn.

"£150?" repeated the auctioneer again. "Anyone?"

A cough was heard, and Mr. Napier smiled and raised his hand. "£150," he said with a polite smile to Edith.

Pity bid. Edith could barely force a smile.

"Excellent!" the auctioneer decreed. "Do I hear £200?"

£200!? That was jumping ahead by leaps and bounds, wasn't it? Apparently the crowd thought the bidding would be just as exciting as it had been with Mary; they were wrong.

_Oh Lord, this is embarrassing,_ she thought to herself. And there she was, thinking earlier that it was going to be "romantic". What had she been thinking?

"Ah, such a shame," Michael sighed to Tom. "She's a pretty girl; I'd make a bid if I could," he sighed wistfully.

"You're married," Tom muttered under his breath.

"Only on a technicality," Michael muttered back.

"£200," Lord Grantham answered a second time. A polite applause went up from around the room, but Edith couldn't believe her bad luck. She knew what her father was doing; trying to drive the bidding and keep it going, but the problem was, she had never been as popular as her sisters, she had always been shy and—

"£2000!"

A gasp went up from around the room and all eyes turned to the voice that had spoken. Edith's head snapped up and she tried to peer through the audience to see who had spoken. Mary and Sybil were stunned as well. £2000!? That was even more than the amount Matthew had put forward!

"£2000! What a generous offer!" the auctioneer gasped, just as stunned as everyone else. "Of course, it's all for charity, ladies and gentlemen," he reminded everyone while clearing his throat. "Sir? Will you please stand so we may…?"

Edith squinted her eyes, trying to see through the haze of flashbulbs who her potential dinner date was. And was surprised when she recognized the gentleman who was standing to be none other than the man who had spoken in defense of Matthew.

"Oh!" the auctioneer recognized the man right away, and Tom nearly dropped his pen, as several people around the room gasped. This was certainly going to be making the front page of many newspapers tomorrow. "Well…" the auctioneer tried to regain his composure. "£2000 to Sir Anthony Strallan! Do I hear £2025?"

Of course he wouldn't. Why would anyone, who barely bid after £200 try to bid after £2000? And apparently the auctioneer thought so too, because he quickly beat his gavel against the podium, and the room erupted into applause.

"Well done, Edith!" Sybil hissed at her sister, drawing her back to the rest of them.

"Indeed," Mary murmured into Edith's ear. "That was interesting, to say the least!"

Edith didn't really know what to make of it all. On one hand, she was grateful that she wasn't a laughing stock. But on the other hand…was this good? Or was it like Evelyn's bid? Had it simply been done out of pity?

As for Anthony, he quickly sat back down, his body shaking as he realized what he had just done. "Well…" his friend Martin patted his shoulder. "Suppose I won't have to worry about you outbidding me on that Renault now, will I?"

Anthony swallowed and put on a smile at the man's joke, but the truth was…as he watched the young woman on that stage, he felt something in him stir, a feeling he hadn't felt in a great many years, but…it was more than pity that he felt, when it seemed no one would make a bid for her. But rather…why waste his money on a car? When he could instead spend an evening with a lovely lady, having fine conversation over dinner?

Of course, there was the fact that she was no doubt at least twenty years his junior, but…still, he felt compelled to say something…and not let this moment pass.

"Well, our final lady of the evening," the auctioneer announced, turning and smiling at Sybil who's smile instantly faded when she realized it was her turn. "Lady Sybil Crawley!"

"Go on," Mary urged, practically pushing her sister forward.

"That's right; all of us have suffered! Now it's your turn!" Edith hissed, helping Mary in pushing Sybil.

Sybil turned and gave them a filthy look, before plastering a smile on her face and turning nervously towards the crowd.

"Well, shall we start the bidding at—"

"£200!"

A gasp went up from the crowd and Sybil stared with wide eyes at the man who spoke. _Oh no…_

Larry Grey.

"Oh no…" her sisters muttered behind her, reading her thoughts and feeling her sentiments. She despised Larry Grey with the fiery passion of a thousand suns. The man was a sexist pig who thought he could anything with his money. And he had been boasting for a number of years that he would get Sybil to go out with him. And her response had always been to drop dead and eat shit.

No, no, she REFUSED to go on a date with that bastard!

"Well… £200 to a very eager Mr. Grey," the auctioneer announced, earning a chuckle from the crowd. "Do I hear £250?"

"£300," Larry declared with a cocky grin.

"You can't bid twice in a row Larry!" Sybil shouted from the stage, earning several gasps from the crowd, as well as several flashes from nearby cameras.

"Um…indeed," the auctioneer coughed, looking a little confused. "Until someone else makes a bid, sir, there is no need to—"

"£400!" Larry declared, completely ignoring what was being said, and clearly enjoying the attention he was receiving.

Sybil looked ready to commit murder. Mary and Edith turned towards their father, each of them giving him a look that silently screamed _"DO SOMETHING!"_

Robert coughed and lifted his hand to make a bid himself, just as he had done for Edith, but Larry must have seen him raising his hand out of the corner of his eye, because he shot to his feet and shouted loud and clear, "£500!"

Clearly, Larry was not going to allow anyone to take this opportunity away from him.

"Well…" the auctioneer glanced nervously back and forth from Larry to Sybil to Lord Grantham. "Our last bid was for…£500, to Mr. Grey." He looked around the room, trying to see if anyone was going to say anything, but no one looked ready to challenge the man who was grinning proudly. With a heavy sigh, the auctioneer lifted his gavel, and Sybil stared in horror as she realized what was about to happen.

"No, no, I refuse, do you hear me!" her voice rising with every breath. "I am NOT going on a date with him—"

"£500…!" all eyes suddenly turned to the side of the room, where the press was gathered, and Michael looked in shock at his friend.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?" he hissed. "You can't bid!"

Tom ignored him and kept his eyes focused on the girl on stage. She was looking right back at him, and he swore his heart came to a stop.

"Um…I'm sorry sir, but £500 has already been declared—"

Tom shook his head. "£500 and…1!"

Everyone blinked as the amount settled over them. £501?

The auctioneer gasped as the gavel was ripped from his hands and Sybil sent it crashing down on the podium. "SOLD!" she shouted, before tossing the gavel aside.

"WHAT!?" Larry roared, looking back and forth between the stage and the press. The room had erupted into laughter had what had happened, and it was drowning out Larry's shouts. "HE CAN'T BID! HE'S A MEMBER OF THE PRESS! IT'S FORBIDDEN!"

"The auction is over, Larry," Sybil stated matter-of-factly, before joining the room in applauding the man who had, in a manner of speaking, come to her rescue. "Don't be a sore loser; it's not very sporting."

Larry looked ready to commit murder, but his father was suddenly there, slapping a hand on his shoulders and telling him to sit down and be quiet before he caused a scene.

"Well! That was exciting!" the auctioneer grinned, trying to bring order back to the room. "And thus concludes our bidding with the lovely Crawley sisters. Thank you, ladies!" Everyone joined the auctioneer in applauding, and the three sisters smiled at the audience, before quickly turning and exiting the room, retreating back stage at once.

"Good God," Mary groaned, feeling as if she had just endured a marathon.

"I take it back," Edith said. "That was the opposite of romantic."

"I am NEVER doing that again," Sybil stated quite firmly.

"It's over, that's all that matters," Mary muttered, glancing out through curtain that separated the backstage from the rest of the auction hall. She was trying to find Matthew. What was he doing here?

"I can't believe that Matthew is back," Sybil murmured, as if reading her thoughts. "And I can't believe you have a date with the Minister of Agriculture," she turned and grinned at Edith. "He is rather handsome and distinguished in that 'Alan Rickman meets Colin Firth' sort of way," she giggled.

Edith felt her cheeks darken. "Well…what about you and the 'radical Irish journalist'?" she challenged.

Now it was Sybil's turn to blush. "He did sound Irish, didn't he?" There was something about the Irish brogue that always made her melt.

"Is that allowed?" Edith asked, turning to Mary. "I mean, can members of the press do that? Participate in the auction?"

"Actually, they're not supposed to," Mary told them, but Sybil was shaking her head.

"If you think I'm going on a date with Larry Grey just because that follows the silly rules of this thing…" she kept shaking her head. "No, no, I refuse; I will not give my Irishman up!"

Edith couldn't help but giggle at that. "_Your_ Irishman? My, aren't we the possessive one?"

"Alright, alright, that's enough," Mary muttered, turning and leading her sisters by the elbows back to the green room. "The press will no doubt want to conduct a few interviews after the whole thing is done, so…let's just go back, freshen ourselves up…and prepare for the next phase."

"You mean our dates?" Edith asked.

Mary blushed as she once again realized that she was going on a date with Matthew Crawley…her ex.

"That's right," she stated, putting on another look of determination. "But just for one night, mind you!" she reminded them…and herself. "Remember, this is all for charity!"

Sybil and Edith exchanged a look, but didn't say anything. They knew all about the history between their sister and Matthew Crawley.

"Well…it certainly was memorable, I will say that," Sybil sighed as she linked her arms with Mary and Edith.

Indeed, and this was only the first phase. Tomorrow, they would be going on their individual dinner dates: she with a journalist, Edith with the Minister of Agriculture, and Mary with an ex-boyfriend.

"Well, you are right, Mary!" Sybil grinned, smiling at her sister. "This will make for some interesting gossip come Sunday brunch!"


	2. The Dates (part I)

_HELLO! I know, it's been FOREVER since I last posted, but here is the second chapter *finally* to my STEAMM story. I was originally going to have this story only be 3 parts (the auction, the dates, and the aftermath), but what a shocker, the dates are going to take a little more than a single chapter ;o) so now I'm expecting this fic to be five chapters, each one featuring each couple, so make sure you read each one!_

_Thank you to everyone who has read and commented and favorited and followed! Thanks to all the Andith and M/M shippers new to my work, and all the S/T shippers who share a special place for an Irishman and his Lady. I hope you enjoy this next chapter; don't worry, questions will start to be answered, just be patient ;o) until then, enjoy the ride! (And I promise to update much sooner than last time!) THANK YOU!_

* * *

_Chapter Two__**  
"The Dates"  
part I**_

"What on earth are you wearing?"

Edith paused and looked down at herself, her hands immediately running over the shimmering sea green chiffon skirt that seemed to flutter when she moved. "What? What's wrong with it?"

Mary lifted one of her perfectly sculpted eyebrows, but Sybil, who was standing right behind her simply rolled her eyes and shook her head. "Pay no attention to her, Edith, I like it; reminds me of a mermaid, actually," she giggled.

Edith smiled at her younger sister, before turning and admiring her reflection in the mirror. "I wanted to wear something vintage," she explained. "Especially since—"

"_He's_ vintage?" Mary teased.

Edith gave her sister a look. "Because we're having dinner at the Ritz! And for heaven's sake, he's not THAT old!" she defended.

Sybil was looking at the screen of her phone. "According to Google, he's fifty-three."

"AH! See?" Edith grinned, as if her sister's answer solved everything.

"That's the same age as Papa!" Mary declared.

"Are you _trying_ to ruin my evening?" Edith groaned, before turning back to the mirror to look at her reflection once more. "Because it won't work. I am determined to enjoy myself this evening."

Sybil grinned. "Here, here!"

Mary sighed and shook her head. "No, I…I'm not trying to ruin your evening—anyone's evening," she added, looking at Sybil. "Just…just be careful, both of you. Sir Anthony is a politician, and that Branson character—"

"Is a well-respected journalist for a paper whose politics I happen to agree with," Sybil interrupted, the look she was giving her eldest sister telling her not to push the issue further.

"He's still a reporter," Mary muttered. And regardless of who he worked for, the man could easily sell the story of his "date night" to any willing tabloid.

"Listen to you and all your talk about us 'being careful'; have you given yourself your own speech?" Edith asked as she put on her earrings. "You're the one going on a date with your ex-fiancé."

Mary's face burned. "We were never engaged," she muttered. "We had discussed the issue, but…but nothing ever came of it."

Edith lifted her eyebrows at this, but Sybil gave her a look that told her to leave their older sister be. "Look, I think Edith is right, we should try to look at the entire situation as…as something positive. Try to enjoy ourselves. Besides, Mary, you yourself said it's only dinner."

"I did," Mary mumbled, moving to the mirror that Edith had been occupying and gazing at her reflection. "Of course that was before I knew who my date was going to be."

Sybil sighed, putting her mobile down and moving to where her sister stood. "Did things truly end _that badly_ with Matthew?" she softly asked, watching Mary's face carefully as she asked her question.

Mary didn't say anything, nor did she lift her eyes to meet the questioning gaze of her baby sister.

"Well, I think this is a good thing for you both," Edith decided to add. "Hopefully tonight will provide you with some closure."

Mary groaned and rolled her eyes, but bit her tongue and chose not to say anything. Now was not the time for a fight, not when they only had thirty minutes until they were each meant to meet with their "champions" for the evening.

It was Sybil's idea that they all meet at Edith's townhouse as she was the only sister who kept a London residence that wasn't a tiny flat. When Mary was in London, she often stayed with their Aunt Rosamond. Her home was Crawley House, back in Yorkshire, close to the foundation's main office. As for Sybil, she kept a small flat within a short walking distance of St. Thomas Hospital, where she had just started her residency. Their father wasn't thrilled that Sybil insisted in living "like a 'real' student" in such "small quarters" when he could easily get her a moderately sized place in a perfectly respectable part of the city—but then he wasn't exactly thrilled with her choice of profession either, though he had long since learned that there was little point in arguing otherwise with his youngest. And even though their aunt had offered that they come to Eaton Square to prepare for the evening, the truth was, all three sisters longed to have a moment just to themselves.

"Did Granny choose the places?" Sybil asked as she looked down at the slip of paper, containing the information as to where her date was to take place.

Mary noticed her sister's frown. "We both picked them. Why, what's wrong? I thought you'd be pleased with _Selfridge's,_ with the way you're always going on about all those suffrage meetings that took place once upon a time."

Sybil sighed and pushed the paper back into her purse. "I just don't want him to feel…overwhelmed…for our first date—"

"_First_ date?" Edith giggled. "My, we are optimistic, aren't we?"

Sybil poked her tongue out at her sister. "And you're not?" she shot back, gesturing to Edith's lovely and rather elaborate gown. "You wear something like that to all your dates?"

Edith blushed and turned away from her sister's somewhat accusatory stare. "I…I just want to make a good impression! I mean…he _is_ the Minister of Agriculture, after all," she defended. "And you know someone will be there to take pictures—"

"Precisely," Mary muttered, trying to decide whether or not to wear her hair up and or down. _Matthew always liked it when I let my hair down._ She quickly began to twist it into a knot. "Which is why it is so important that we be careful with everything we say and do, tonight! The tabloids are practically itching for a cover story, and we mustn't give them one. Besides…it's important to remember who we are representing; Papa _and_ The Grantham Foundation."

Sybil made a face at her sister's words, but refrained from commenting on them. Instead she gave a resolute sigh and moved to the mirror to apply some lipstick. "Well, I am hoping things go well. I'm intrigued by Mr. Branson," she grinned, blushing as she remembered the sound of his Irish brogue. "And you never know; something may happen—"

"Oh Sybil, please," Mary groaned, not wanting to think about her little sister and the journalist doing anything _other_ than having dinner together.

"Oh for heaven's sake, I didn't mean _that!_" Sybil rolled her eyes…before allowing a wicked grin to spread across her face. "…Not that I'm against the idea; I mean, did you see his forearms?"

"Enough!" Mary turned from the mirror and fixed her sister with a hard stare. "Didn't you just hear ANYTHING that I said? Yes, I can see the headlines right now about how good of a shag the Earl of Grantham's youngest is—"

"Oh Mary, honestly, you're being unfair! Both to him _and_ to me! I'm not a child anymore, and you shouldn't assume such things about someone you don't even know!"

"And neither should you assume otherwise for that very same reason," Mary warned. "And that goes for you too, Edith! Even if Sir Anthony Strallan is an older man, that doesn't make him any less of a…of a _lothario_, preying on a younger woman."

Edith couldn't help but giggle with amusement at Mary's choice of words, causing her sister's frown to deepen even more. "While I appreciate the warning—and in an odd way, it is rather flattering," Edith admitted. "I don't think you have to worry about me. After all, because of his position, Sir Anthony will be just as concerned, if not more so, about what the tabloids print."

Mary opened her mouth to say more, but was interrupted by a distinct buzzing, coming from her mobile. She looked down at it and saw the text message sent from Anna. "It's time," she murmured, a sudden wave of nervousness washing over her again. _Oh God, in just a few short minutes I'll see him again; sit across from him at a table and…and what? What on earth are we going to talk about? Other than the fact to why on earth he's back in England? _

A squeeze to her right hand caused Mary to lift her eyes away from her mobile and turn to her youngest sister who was giving her an encouraging smile. "It's going to be alright," she assured, though how Sybil could know this, Mary had no idea. Yet there was something comforting in the words of the youngest Crawley sister, and Mary quickly found herself squeezing Sybil's hand back. "For all of us," Sybil said, turning and smiling at Edith and holding her other hand out to her, which Edith gratefully took. The three stood together, huddled awkwardly, wrapping their arms around each other, including Mary and Edith, who weren't always as affectionate to one another as they knew they should be. But in such moments like this, they could set aside their differences and truly be the sisters they were meant to be, and so together, Mary, Edith, and Sybil Crawley hugged one another, wishing each other luck, as with a deep breath, and one last look in the mirror…they all began to move to the door where three individual cars waited to whisk them away for their dates.

"To be continued at Sunday brunch!" Edith grinned as she put on her wrap.

"Don't be late," Sybil said pointedly, giving Mary a wink which caused the eldest Crawley sister to both blush and roll her eyes.

"Please," she muttered. "The chances of _that_ happening—"

"Never say never," Sybil said with a click of her tongue, before fixing a look on her other sister. "And that goes for you too."

Edith laughed, though she was glowing bright red at her sister's suggestion. "Honestly, there is more likelihood of you coming over tomorrow and finding me passed out on the couch than in bed with Sir Anthony Strallan."

Sybil leaned in and whispered once again, "Never say never."

"Honestly, Sybil, is that _all_ you think about?" Mary groaned, to which the youngest Crawley sister laughed, before climbing into her car and giving a farewell wave to the others.

"Don't YOU be late!" Edith called out, shaking her head as the car began to move away from the curb.

"Well at least one of us will be enjoying themselves tonight," Mary sighed as Sybil's car drove away.

"Make that two of us," Edith declared with a smile. "Even if nothing more comes to it, and I doubt it will," she said with a resolute sigh (though she couldn't deny, there was a hint of disappointment at the thought), "I meant what I said earlier; I am determined to enjoy myself this evening."

Mary nodded her head. "Good, I hope you do; I mean that, Edith, honestly."

Edith smiled at this, but that smile faded as she gazed at her sister's troubled face. "I hope you do as well, Mary. At least you know Matthew. And…well…despite how things ended, you _know_ he's a good man."

Mary sighed and shook her head, before turning away and climbing into her own car. "Yes, he is," she mumbled. And that was part of the problem.

* * *

He felt like a teenager going on his first date all over again. Which was absolutely ridiculous, since he hadn't been a teenager in well over thirty years. Still, he couldn't remember the last time he had been this nervous, not even when he had been courting Maud.

"Care for another, sir?" the waiter asked, always seeming to appear when his glass was empty. Anthony blushed slightly, but nodded at the man and took a deep breath, focusing again on the revolving door of the hotel restaurant, his sweaty palms nervously gripping the arms of his chair, the underside of the table cloth, the trousers on his thighs. Good God, he was actually fidgeting! Why?

_Because she's young and beautiful and you're nothing but an old codger who by some stroke of luck, ended up spending the money you had brought to win that Renault on a date with Lady Edith Crawley, and you don't want her to regret it._ Though in all fairness, she probably _already was_ regretting it. After all, just as his mind had said, she was young and beautiful. And while it wasn't unheard of for a young and beautiful woman to…take an "interest" in an older man (and heaven knows he was familiar with this concept as someone who worked in politics), most of those women had something to gain from such relationships, normally in the form of money or special privileges. And it was a well-known fact that _that_ was the true reason, those women allowed themselves to be "kept".

Give and take; you scratch my back, I scratch yours. You have something I want; I'll give you something you want. This was the nature of politics, and it extended well beyond the walls of parliament. Love was not, and often times never, a factor in such things.

Not that Lady Edith was looking for love. Or that she was evening thinking about having such a relationship with him! Having ANY relationship with him! No, no, she had much bigger and better fish to fry, no doubt. She was simply taking pity—no, she was simply "seeing her side of the deal"—by agreeing to have dinner with him. That was all, nothing more…oh God, where was that waiter with his scotch?

In the end, Martin Grey had won the Renault, and he was grinning from ear to ear about it, slapping him on the shoulder and "thanking him" for letting "the best man win". Anthony forced a smile, but kept his eyes to the floor, asking himself over and over, _"what were you thinking?"_ Truly, what had compelled him to do that? Other than the fact that he had felt sorry for her…this beautiful woman, standing there and wearing such a lovely smile, though it was clear she looked so embarrassed, though he couldn't help but admire her bravery, standing there in front of all those people, opening herself up to ridicule...

No, it wasn't because he pitied her that he had spoken up. But rather…because there was something about her that just…seemed so special. That in an odd way, reminded him of himself, if that made any sense. Or rather, reminded him of who he wish he could be, standing and bravely facing all those judging eyes…it was inspiring, really. And before he even realized what had happened, he was not only throwing his metaphorical hat into the ring, but he was shouting out a very large sum of money, an amount that…hadn't been necessary; after all, few voices had spoken up—why had he bid so much? But again, when he thought about her lovely face, the way her eyes lit up when he had spoken, the way she looked directly at him…how could he not? And even though he had sat in stunned silence after the auction was over, barely hearing a word Martin had said, lost in his own world and questioning his motives for what he had done…he knew, even then, that it had been worth it.

…He just hoped she would think so to.

…_If_ she came.

Anthony sighed and glanced down at his watch, swallowing the nervous lump in his throat. _Half-past eight._ They were supposed to meet at eight o'clock. He hadn't read the instructions he had been given, had he? No, no, he knew he hadn't, because he had memorized that blasted slip of paper ever since it had been handed to him.

_The Ritz  
8pm  
Table for Two  
Sir Anthony Strallan & Lady Edith Crawley_

He remembered the way his eyebrows had risen at the information; the Ritz? Had this been Lady Edith's choice? Or that of her grandmother? The waiter returned with his drink then, and Anthony wasted no time, taking a rather large gulp from it, before thanking the man. Again, his eyes returned to that revolving door, his whole body tensing every time he saw a woman enter, before sagging when he realized that the woman wasn't her.

_Look at yourself! You're being absolutely ridiculous! Good God, you're fifty-three years old, and the Minister of Agriculture! _

Exactly; while he did not know precisely her age, he was very sure she was at least twenty-years his junior. How embarrassing for her. He hadn't done her a kindness, he had simply added to her humiliation! An old fool like himself, bidding so much money for an evening in her lovely company, and no doubt she was dreading the whole thing. And could he blame her? Dinner with the Minister of Agriculture—how dull! She was a city girl, someone who probably went out for cocktails at the end of the day, who was known and beloved at many clubs, who…who…

…Who wasn't coming.

_Face the facts, old boy; she's trying to let you down gently. No doubt a waiter will be by shortly to tell you that she's feeling under the weather or…create some sort of excuse. But either way, enjoy your drink and then walk out with your head held high and thinking nothing more of it. Or of her, if you can…_

If he could.

He sighed and took another deep swallow from his glass. He was resigned to his fate.

* * *

Sir Anthony Strallan wasn't the only man looking nervously at his watch while waiting for a Crawley sister to arrive. In another part of London, a man who knew the Crawley family only too well was pacing back and forth in the lobby of a restaurant, his eyes fixed on the street outside, taking note of every passer-by, taking note that none of them were Mary.

Not for the first time did Matthew run a hand nervously through his hair. It was a gesture the restaurant hostess was all too familiar with as she watched the handsome, blonde gentleman, pace back and forth. It wasn't her place to pry, but curiosity did always get the better of her. "Big date?" she asked.

Matthew looked up at the young woman who had spoken to him, who was smiling somewhat sheepishly at her question. He couldn't help but return the smile, his just as sheepish, before stuffing his hands in his pockets and nodding his head. "You could say that," he murmured, his face turning red.

"Well, if it means anything, you're not the first man to pace this lobby, wondering if his 'lady fair' will turn up. In the end, they always do."

Her words were supposed to be comforting, but Matthew simply felt even more nervous. "There's always a first," he sighed, more to himself than to the hostess, however, she had overheard him and looked troubled by his words. Matthew noticed the woman's expression, and found himself wondering if he should explain himself. He didn't like it when friends of his "aired their dirty laundry" so to speak; he didn't believe in boasting, bragging, and telling one's mates about what was going on in his love life, and he especially didn't believe in burdening a stranger with such stories.

…But at the same time he couldn't deny, it would be nice to talk to someone, just to relieve some of the tension he was feeling.

"This isn't a first date," he began. "Or rather, this is a first date after a long…separation," he explained.

The hostess' eyes widened. "Oh!" She looked at an utter loss on what to say, and Matthew was inwardly cursing himself for the awkwardness he had created. He should have gone with his initial instincts and kept his mouth shut.

"Anyway, I…it was a 'spur of the moment' sort of thing," he went on. That was an understatement. "But…but I'm not sure if she wants to have this dinner the same way I want to, so…"

The hostess looked at him with sympathy but didn't say a word. She didn't have to. Matthew felt utterly pathetic, he didn't need another person "validating" and "assuring him", he just needed to face facts. The last time he and Mary had had a meal together it had ended in anger, tears, and her rising from the table, throwing her napkin down, before turning and making a quick escape, while he stared at her retreating figure…and did nothing.

He winced at the memory and groaned, running his hand down over his face now. He had been so stupid. They both had been pig-headed, but…but it was his fault, in the end. He just sat there…watching the woman he loved—_still_ loved, so help him—walk out the door and out of his life for what seemed like for good. And even though he was back in England now, even though he had outbid all those other men for a chance to have dinner with her, that didn't mean he would. Just because he had seen her yesterday, didn't mean she had no longer "walked out of his life".

And tonight would prove that…_if_ she came.

"OH!"

Matthew looked up at the gasping hostess, whose mouth formed a perfectly round O, and who was gesturing towards the lobby window which he was standing beside. His eyes followed her finger and he peered out towards the darkened street as a car pulled up to the curb, and a doorman was quick to step forward and open it.

He held his breath as he waited for the car's occupant to emerge.

Was it her? Was it?

The minutes that passed were excruciating, and Matthew would think they were some of the longest he had ever endured in his life.

But the anxiety of those minutes would never compare to the intense relief he felt when her elegant hand took the offered one of the doorman, and her lovely face emerged at last from the car.

_Mary._ She had come.

* * *

Tom looked once again at the slip of paper in his hand and swallowed the nervous lump in his throat. He glanced at the mirrored walls just outside the famous London department store's restaurant, wondering for the millionth time that night if he looked alright. It was strange; normally when he had gone on dates in the past, he always tried to make sure that he was "as well groomed" as possible (something his mother had instilled in all her sons), but once he was out the door, any further thoughts on his appearance were gone. Yet tonight, he had been so meticulous in preparing for the evening, from showering, shaving, even getting his shoes polished. The last time he had gone to this much trouble had been when he had first come to London looking for a job. And in some odd way, this felt like an interview as well, though for an entirely different position…

_Dream on, Tommy boy; posh girl like that? As if you could fit into her world—as if you would want to!_ He shook his head and glanced again at his reflection. There was a reason he had dressed the way he had, not that he was slovenly or anything. But the truth was, he didn't really know how…dressed up to get for something like this. It was a date, but…not really a date, either. He had "outbid" some slimy git by a single pound, and now he was having dinner with Sybil Crawley.

Correction: _Lady_ Sybil Crawley. He mustn't forget that, he kept reminding himself. And at the same time, he mustn't forget who he was. He was nothing like Larry Grey or any of those men who had thrown their hats into the bidding war. He didn't come from money, he didn't inherit a vast fortune, everything he had he had earned himself, sometimes by working his hands raw. He had put himself through school, he had paid for his ticket to London, and he shared a place with two other blokes in a flat that really little more than a walk-in closet. And yet he never complained because he was doing something he loved, and sticking to his principles; not many people could say that. In the end, he was a working class Irish Catholic who was proud of his heritage and the home he had grown up in, and he refused to ever let anyone make him feel "ashamed" of that.

…Which was perhaps why he had chosen to the suit he was wearing. His sister, who paid more attention to fashion, would say he was "dress casual". Dark trousers, blue dress shirt, charcoal gray jacket…but no tie. And the buttons at the base of his shirt were undone. At the time, he thought the clothes were perfect; the sort of thing he would wear to any other date, really.

But…this wasn't _any other_ date, of course. And while at the time he had thought his choice in attire represented "the every man", he couldn't help but groan as he caught his reflection again. _Really? You decided to make some sort of 'political statement' based on whether or not you would wear a tie?_ If his mother were there, she would no doubt smack him up the side of the head.

Not for the first time did he lift his hand to his mouth to check his breath…and also, not for the first time, did he turn bright red at the thought behind the reason he kept doing this. _As if you have a chance in hell of kissing her. _And would he want to? She was beautiful, no denying that, but there was more to a woman than physical attraction. If she was anything like her grandmother and the present Earl of Grantham (politically speaking) he doubted he would be hoping for a second date…which was even more unlikely than ending the night with the both of them kissing.

Tom groaned and shook his head, his hand rubbing the back of his neck has his friend, Michael's words, kept repeating over and over in his head.

"_What are you doing!? Are you mad!?"_ Yes, apparently. Yes, he was. And he had gotten an earful from both Lord Grantham and his boss about the matter.

"_I was not aware that_ The Standard _was interested in tawdry tabloid journalism!"_

"Lord Grantham, let me assure you that nothing of that nature will appear in our paper; Tom was sent to cover the auction and that is exactly what we will print, nothing more."

"But how can I be assured that he's not going to write something up and sell it to some other publication?"

"_I know Tom Branson, I trust him; and he knows the integrity we have here, hence why we call ourselves_ The Standard. _But if it puts you at ease, I can reassure you that he will face something much harsher than a vocal reprimand should his evening with Lady Sybil appear on any front page tomorrow."_

"_Damn right he will; my lawyers are standing by and will be watching…"_

Tom had tried to do his best not to roll his eyes at Lord Grantham's threats, especially as he received what could only be called "death glares" from his editor, but he shook the man's hand, reassured him again that this was not some "pro-Labor practical joke being taken at Lady Sybil's expense", though he hated the way his boss was rolling over, belly up, to anything Robert Crawley was grumbling. He had a right mind to cancel the whole thing. But then by doing so, it would be admitting defeat to Lord Grantham, as well as perhaps "proving" to the man that his suspicions were right. And Tom's stubbornness was legendary, even amongst the Bransons, who were known for their stubborn nature back in his native Dublin.

"Hello…?"

Tom froze. He swallowed, and turned his head, his heart stopping as his eyes took in the goddess standing before him, in a lovely red dress, her hair pulled back, one hand rising up to tuck some stray strands behind her ear…her blue eyes shining and the bashful smile she wore breathtaking, making her look even more beautiful, if that was possible.

_Don't just stand there you idiot, say something!_ "H-h-hi," he stammered, internally groaning and rolling his eyes. Smooth.

Her smile grew and her lashes fluttered against her cheeks as she looked down at herself, her blush growing more and more and Tom's heartbeat becoming more and more erratic.

"Um…I'm Sybil," she introduced, stepping forward and holding her hand out to him. "But you probably already know that."

Tom blushed deeply and silently reprimanded himself, before stepping forward and taking her offered hand in his to shake. "Tom Branson," he introduced, shaking her hand. "But…I'm guessing you were told that, too?"

She laughed then, and Tom felt his smile grow at the sound. "Well, I was informed, yes," she admitted. "But I did a little research of my own, as well."

Tom's eyes widened a little at this. "Oh?" he practically squeaked.

She couldn't help but giggle, blushing and nodding her head and lowering her eyes. "I um…I found some of your articles online," she explained. "You're an amazing writer!"

Amazing? _Him?_ The cynic in him was side-eyeing the compliment, however that part of his brain was told to be quiet, because truly…both the tone of her voice and the way she was looking at him said that she was genuinely being sincere.

"I…I confess, I never really read _The Standard_ too much; over the last few years, most of my reading material has been medical textbooks, and when I do get the chance to read about politics, it's been in _The Guardian."_

Robert Crawley's daughter read _The Guardian?_ Hardly a Tory-friendly paper. Clearly there was more to Sybil Crawley—_Lady Sybil_, he reminded himself, than met the eye.

…And he desperately wanted to learn more.

"Would…would you like a drink?" he asked, gesturing towards the restaurant entrance, and the bar that lay just beyond.

Sybil smiled and nodded her head, tucking another stray strand of hair behind her ear, before glancing down between their bodies…and it was only then that Tom realized they had never released each other's hands.

His first instinct was to apologize and let go, but Sybil's small fingers slid up his arm, and Tom held his breath as he felt her hand curl around his elbow, before resting on the inside of his arm. "Lead the way, Mr. Branson," she murmured with a grin.

Oh God, he was doomed.

* * *

The light of flashbulbs drew him out of his melancholy. Anthony lifted his head and gasped as there she stood, looking positively dazzling in a gown that seemed to have come out of the Roaring '20's. She was blushing and smiling and even gave a little wave to the cameras, no doubt there to cover whatever gossip they could find on one of the Earl of Grantham's daughters, going out on her charity dinner date, before turning and handing her wrap to a waiter, who was only too kind to make a gesture for her towards his table.

Anthony couldn't stop staring.

Like Aphrodite rising out of the sea! She was…well, to put it plainly, she was a vision! Absolutely stunning…

And she was walking towards his table. Smiling the entire time.

"I'm so sorry!" she apologized as she approached. "The traffic was a nightmare; I would have called, but…" she looked a little guilty. "In my excitement for the evening, I seemed to have left my mobile at home."

Had he just heard her correctly? In her…_excitement_…for the evening? He swallowed and told himself calm down and not get ahead of himself. Yet at the same time, he couldn't help but smile as he heard the genuine sincerity in her voice.

"I hope I didn't keep you waiting too long?" she asked, looking genuinely worried at the prospect.

Anthony quickly shook his head…and then even quicker, rose to his feet to pull out a chair for her. "Not at all, not at all," he assured. "And…and clearly you've made it worth it."

Edith blushed then and looked down bashfully at her lap, thanking him as he helped her with her chair. He took a deep breath before sitting down himself, telling his breathing…and his heart, to calm down.

However he had a feeling, as he gazed upon her loveliness, that this was going to be a very difficult task, if not impossible.

* * *

"Wait," Mary frowned, looking at the street they were turning. She hadn't been paying attention, too busy worrying over her upcoming evening with Matthew, to notice that they were not anywhere near Oxford Street, where her dinner was to take place. "This…this is West Kensington."

The driver didn't look over his shoulder. "Yes, milady."

Mary did her best to stifle her groan of exasperation. "_Why_ are we in West Kensington? The information clearly states—"

_"Albert & Victoria's,"_ the driver announced, holding up a slip of paper in his hand…and sure enough, much to Mary's horror, the car had stopped.

The car had stopped right in front of the very restaurant to which the driver had announced.

_Our place._

Mary's eyes went wide as she stared at the old restaurant—café, really, where she and Matthew had gone many times whenever they were in London. How in the world…?

She snatched the paper out of the driver's hands and read it, her eyes only growing wider and wider as she re-read the address and restaurant information again and again.

_Granny._

Her grandmother was behind this. She recognized the woman's handwriting anywhere. Her grandmother had gone behind her back, purposefully sending her and Matthew to one of their old haunts with hopes that they…what? Rekindle their relationship? Go back to how things once were? No, that was impossible. Mary wasn't even sure if they even be friends! And yet here was her grandmother, meddling in things she shouldn't…

"Miss?"

She glanced up at the doorman who had opened the car door and was offering his hand to help her out. What should she do? Get out and go inside and…and face the past again, and all the heartbreak it had brought?

Or take the coward's way out and tell the driver to take her back to Eaton Square at once.

She sat there and wrestled with her decision for what felt like an eternity. Before finally settling on an answer, one she was sure to regret later, but with a resolute sigh, she took the doorman's offered hand, and climbed out of the car, adopting the cool face she was known for.

If only she could cool her heart the way she could cool her expression…

* * *

_One more thing! Mary and Matthew's restaurant *and* Tom's newspaper are fictional creations of my own; if there is such a restaurant and such a newspaper...happy coincidence! _


End file.
